


Don't Be a Jackass, I'm not Some Delicate Fucking Flower

by YouRunWithTheWolves



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouRunWithTheWolves/pseuds/YouRunWithTheWolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek almost dies, Stiles almost breaks. Derek lives and Stiles is whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Be a Jackass, I'm not Some Delicate Fucking Flower

**Author's Note:**

> I can't write anything but established relationship, it seems. It's probably a little out of character, Derek feels fluffy in this. Sorry.

Derek hears his body hit the ground more than he actually feels it. He falls face first on dead leaves and any and all warmth is leaving him. He doesn't move because he's pretty sure he's dying and he doesn't have the strength for that shit. From where he's lying on his stomach he can barely see Scott wrestle with Peter. He watches, powerless.

At first Peter calls all the shots, and Scott is forced to focus all his energy on defense. But soon after glancing at Derek, Scott is back on his feet, snarling at his uncle. The blows are getting heavier, harder to dodge for Peter, and Scott stands above him ready to kill. But he doesn't. He doesn't. Because this is what Derek does. Scott is no killer, he doesn't want to kill anybody.

So Boyd pushes him aside and shoots Peter in the head with a wolfsbane bullet. Apparently it's what Boyd does too, now. It's quick, clean – well, as clean as a murder can be – and painless. Derek can hear Isaac in the background, out of his line of sight, trying to calm someone. Allison, maybe? Derek isn't sure, he's dying for fuck's sake.

He always knew he was going to die young, and alone. But he wishes it had been different. His eyes flutter shut when the blood that's been pooling around his body reaches his hand. He wishes Stiles was here to hold him, to yell at him, or... He's just really disappointed he won't be able to see his stupid, stupid face before –

 

Derek opens his eyes and closes them back immediately. He groans, flexes his fingers and tries again. He doesn't know where he is. He feels like he should know but his brain is swimming. His thoughts are floating away, disconnected, crossing paths at random moments. They're bubbling up at the surface and colliding before sinking deep again. He's confused as fuck.

There's someone sitting next to him. He flexes his fingers again and it catches fabric. He must be in a bed. The someone is Stiles, Derek remarks numbly after what feels like three hundred years. He smiles, and things become a little sharper. Stiles has a split lip, and his hands are smeared with blood. Derek is so, so happy to see him. He opens his eyes a little more.

“You're not dead,” is the first thing Stiles says. “Just so you know.”

Derek snorts and attempts to bring a hand against Stiles's face, to brush his cheek, to stroke his nape, to... But he ends up covering his face with his whole hand instead, stroking him lazily and clumsily before Stiles flinches back, surprised.

“Woa, there. You're a bit out of it, man,” he chuckles, prying Derek's hand away from his face.

Derek sighs, content, and blindly grips Stile's hand. He doesn't want to let go right away. By “right away”, he means “ever”.

“Ever,” he mumbles, voicing his thoughts.

“What?”

But Derek holds his hand tighter and is already forgetting what they were talking about.

“Deaton patched you up, but he had to use some weird herbs or plants and shit. He said you'd be a bit foggy. How do you feel?”

“You're so pretty,” Derek says, because that's how he feels.

Stiles laughs again.

“You're so high,” he accuses.

“Pretty,” Derek retorts.

Then, Stiles says stuff. He talks but he talks too much and too fast and Derek can't bring himself to follow. He understands “jackass, delicate, fucking” and “flower”. It doesn't make any kind of sense. Stiles never makes any goddamn sense. So Derek shushes him. _Shhh. Shhh._ He closes his eyes again, and he feels someone dragging his fingers up and down on his forearm. It feels good. Derek likes to be touched, he likes to touch. He sighs. Turns his arm a little, so the fingers brush the places he wants them to.

Then, a small panic creeps inside of him and he forces his eyes open again. Where's Stiles?

“I'm here, dude. Still here.”

“Don't go away,” Derek slurs, because it seems really important.

Then he focuses on the words he just used and he thinks they came out all wrong so he tries again, with less syllables.

“Don't leave.”

The fingers resume their work, blunt nails dragging themselves on Derek's skin. He falls asleep, still figuring out different ways to tell him to stay.

 

“Ah-ha. He's awake.”

Derek squirms under the covers. He feels a bit hot. He can hear Stiles talking and smell Scott. He opens his eyes.

“M'not awake, go away,” he mumbles.

“But you wanted me to stick around,” Stiles pouts, leaning above him. “You made sure of it, I remember. You were like a synonym dictionary. Very poetic.”

Scott pushes Stiles out of the way and touches his forehead. Derek is incredibly annoyed, he feels like a child.

“He's got a small fever, but he looks way better.”

“Better than you,” Derek grumbles petulantly.

Stiles laughs and claps Scott on the back.

“Do you think he's still drugged?” Scott asks him, concerned.

Derek frowns. He's not drugged, he would know, okay? He's feeling fine. Well, better than when he was lying half dead in the woods.

Stiles turns to him with a smirk,“Well, let's find out. Am I pretty, Derek?”

What sort of test question is this?

“Ugh,” he replies.

Scott nods once and smiles,“He's back to normal.”

Derek watches him leave, already calling Deaton on the phone. He looks around and finally notices his bedroom. He's at home. He kicks the bed covers away.

“So,” Stiles begins, sitting on the mattress, “you're alive.”

“Apparently.”

Derek finally looks at Stiles, suddenly aware of his presence. Maybe he's still a bit high, then. His head is swimming.

Stiles is wearing a gray t-shirt, Derek's sweatpants and his bottom lip is swollen. There's still a bit of blood on it. Derek straightens up and props himself against the headboard. Stiles is watching him carefully. He doesn't say anything. Derek slowly brings a hand to his face and frowns when Stiles flinches back.

“Sorry, you kinda punched me in the nose, last time,” Stiles smiles, and pushes his face into Derek's open palm with an apologetic smile.

Derek doesn't know what he's talking about. Doesn't remember. He brushes his thumb under the swollen lip before swiping it back up against his cheek, careful as to touch every single mole he can find. The skin is smooth and warm, it feels good.

“I really thought I wasn't going to see your face again,” he whispers in a broken voice.

And he hates himself, because he's just pathetic and the words don't feel right in his mouth, like they don't belong, like he's lying. But he's not. Maybe that's what the truth tastes like. All weird and small. He wouldn't blame Stiles if he laughed at him right now. He doesn't feel like himself, but he doesn't know how to say what he wants to say without sounding stupid.

Stiles swallows thickly and doesn't laugh. He puts his hand on the one still cradling his face and drags them both over his mouth. He kisses Derek's palm once, but it's a long an sweet kiss, and he doesn't break eye contact with him.

“Peter is dead,” he says, out of the blue.

“I saw,” Derek says in reply.

“I had a mild nervous breakdown when Scott dragged you to the car, saying he couldn't hear your heartbeat.”

Derek is used to the weird ways Stiles sometimes steers the conversation. He goes along with it, as always.

“I don't remember that part.”

“Well, yeah, you were busy being dead.”

“Did you yell at my unconscious body?”

Stiles kicks off his shoes and settles next to Derek on the bed, putting an arm around his shoulders.

“No, I was shouting at Scott and Boyd mostly. Scott was so shocked he let me do it. I said terrible things.”

Derek presses himself closer to Stiles and slides down a little against the headboard so he can rest his head on his chest.

“You should have yelled abuse at me, I couldn't hear.”

Stiles hums in agreement and runs his hand through Derek's hair.

“I apologized, though. He's not mad. Well, not anymore.”

“What about Boyd?”

“Boyd punched me in the face.”

Derek closes his eyes. Split lip.

“You must have been a real jerk.”

“You don't even know, I deserved worse than that for the things I've said.”

Derek straightens up again, moving away from Stiles to look at him properly.

“Did I say you were pretty?” he asks with a confused frown, sparks of memory suddenly flaring through his brain.

Stiles flushes. He clears his throat.

“Yes, you did. I was lucky nobody was here to witness this moment.”

“You're not pretty.”

Stiles smiles. And Derek feels his own face grow hot. No, definitely pretty.

“Exactly. I'm manly. I'm handsome, and sexy and hot. But not pretty, alright?”

“You're not hot, don't flatter yourself.”

Stiles snickers.

“Okay, what am I, then?”

“You're... I'm...” Derek trails off, a weird feeling twisting in his guts.

He had almost died, last night. It was serious. Boyd had lost his cool, Stiles wished he hadn't said – whatever he'd said. Scott had almost killed someone. This can't happen again. But it will. Because it's what their lives have become. But Derek doesn't ever want to feel like he did, lying in his own blood. Like he was alone, and sad. Because he's neither.

So he takes a deep breath.

“You know...,” he tries again, but the words won't come out.

He wishes he was drugged out again so he could say whatever crossed his mind. Stiles is waiting, absentmindedly tonguing at the cut on his lip. Derek licks his lips, and just talks.

“I don't know if you'll be able to _be_ here next time – next time I... die,” he says in a rush. “And we have time now. I don't want to say things on my death bed, when it's all rushed and dramatic and sad. You weren't there last night. I couldn't move and I didn't know where you were, and I couldn't hear your voice. I didn't see your face before I passed out and...”

He shakes his head, looks at the wall, somewhere above Stiles's head.

“I thought I was dead. I thought of you and how...”

Stiles is vibrating with something that isn't anger or nervousness, and Derek has no idea what it is. He doesn't know if he should wait for Stiles to say something or if he should go on. He doesn't know if Stiles understands what he's trying to say. He wants him to understand so bad. He looks back at Stiles and his chest is heaving, his hands are twitching, and his mouth is a thin line.

“Next time I want –”

“There won't be no next time,” Stiles bites out.

Derek smiles weakly, and he knows he means it, because there are no hints of laughter in his eyes.

“I want you to understand, it's very important... I just want you to know you were the only thing on my mind.”

And he laughs a bit, because he feels ridiculous. He's alive, he's well. His friends are alive. Peter is dead and gone. For real, this time. Stiles is still breathing shallowly, and Derek opens his arms and tugs him against his chest. When Stiles is safely wrapped around him, Derek hides his face in the crook of his neck and Stiles clutches at his t-shirt harder, almost scratching his skin, holding him so tight the air is pushed out of his lungs.

Derek whispers _I love you_ 's in Stile's neck, and he's sure he can hear them. He whispers “I love you,” and “I love you,” and “I love you,” one for each time he thought about saying it but never did. He whispers _I_ , and _Love_ and _You_ so many times he forgets what the words mean together.

Stiles seemingly deflates, suddenly losing all strength, feeling boneless against Derek. The vibrating tension stops and Derek just holds him there, feeling the waves of relief washing over the both of them. Stiles shakes with dry sobs, the ones that tumble out of your mouth silently.

Scott comes back a while later and finds them melted into each other, unable to let the other go. He pauses at the door and nods at Derek before retreating back outside. Stiles apparently hears the door close behind him and straightens up a bit before rubbing his face all over Derek's chest. He takes a few hitching breaths, like a toddler after a tantrum, and takes Derek's hand, treading his fingers with his.

“Same,” Stiles says. “I do too. I really, really fucking do. The love thing. It's... yeah. Me too. And – ”

Derek doesn't let him finish and just surges forward, catching his lips with his and he tastes like copper because of the little swollen cut. Stiles falls into the kiss and his hands immediately settle on his shoulders, using them as leverage so that he can swing one leg over his thighs. Derek is already tugging urgently at his t-shirt, pushing Stiles away so he can take it off of him. He reluctantly backs away, lets Derek strip him before diving back down for another kiss. It's all tongue and smacking lips. Derek closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of Stiles's naked skin under his hands. He rocks his hips up a little, swallows the answering sound Stiles makes and presses his hands against Stiles's waist, forward and back, so he's rocking with him.

Stiles digs his nails in the meat of his back, and Derek gasps. But Stiles chase his mouth again, merciless, and it's becoming hard to breathe so he flips them. Stiles stretches his long body on the mattress and Derek rakes his teeth along his chest, and unceremoniously yanks the sweatpants down his thighs, Stiles obligingly helping by lifting his hips off the bed for a second. He's not wearing any underwear, and Derek is still fully clothed, so he urgently strips down to nothing, like Stiles is going to disappear any second.

Stiles legs spontaneously fall open, and Derek takes his rightful place between them.

He wraps his hand around the both of them, already stetting a steady pace, but Stiles tightens his fingers around his forearm, stopping him. Derek looks up at him, confused.

Stiles's eyes are fixed on his.

“I swear to fucking God, Derek. I wasn't lying before. This won't happen again. If you put me through this again – I don't care if it's – your fault or not. I _don't care_. If you die –”

“I promise,” Derek says, interrupting his jagged attempt at formulating a complete sentence.

He doesn't know what he's promising exactly; he feels like he should follow that up with something – _I promise I will live forever, I promise I will be more careful, I promise nobody will ever try to kill me, I promise you will get over it someday_ – but Stiles closes his eyes and nods, relieved, happy to believe the lie.

They kiss again, and Derek picks up the pace, still rocking their bodies together, tightening his grip, and Stiles comes quietly, his breath hitches in his chest and he screws his eyes shut. He doesn't make a sound but Derek grunts when he follows him blindly, tipping over the edge of his own orgasm.

Stiles pets his hair and pushes him gently to the side, throwing the bed covers haphazardly on them.

Stiles sighs happily and Derek can't help but mutter, “Pretty.”

Stiles shoves him away and barks, “Okay, enough romance, you jerkface,” failing miserably at appearing to be angry.

**Author's Note:**

> You could come say hi on [tumblr](http://yourunwiththewolves.tumblr.com) if you were so inclined.


End file.
